Baby Barf Isn’t a Fashion Statement
It’s not everyday I get to walk down the streets of Soho smelling like baby barf. In fact, I’m not even in Soho very often. But as luck would have it, the one day I decided to take Fia into the fashionable hip area of New York City, she let loose.
My friend Courtney and I were taking the babes to a mom-tot camp. I recently got a car, so we decided to drive. Being pregnant and hot in the subways isn’t real appealing.
As I pulled into the parking garage, I heard the gurgling sound. And then smelled it. Phil had given her both milk and yogurt that morning. Fetid. It was everywhere.
The parking attendant dudes were amazing. They gave me paper towels, cleaning supplies, the works. In a scenario like this you find out quickly how good—or useless—your mom friends are. Courtney got right in there and helped me with the mess as her son Teddy slept blissfully in the car seat next to Fia’s. How he didn’t wake up from the stench is beyond me.
Poor Fi was crying at first but then got her happy face on. Especially when I took her in the grubby parking lot bathroom and tried to give her a sink shower. She thought it was bath time.
“No, don’t touch the faucet,” I yelled as I dangled her over the dirty sink. “No, not the paper towels either.” I was trying to hold her away from me as I cleaned her. It was a good core and arm workout. The floor was covered with water and dirt and her vomit. It was just a royal mess. (I did mop up the mess after.)
Of course it was one of those times when I didn’t bring a full back up outfit. I had a kimono-top, but that was it. Poor baby had her first experience in Soho looking more homeless than high fashion.
But now I get the badge of barf honor and know even more how imperative friends and family are. It takes a village—especially with vomit.